I watched my husband’s award ceremony on a tablet propped up in the kitchen, chopping pork ribs with a heavy cleaver. The host asked him who he wanted to thank the most at this pinnacle of his career. He pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses, his voice smooth and gentle: "I want to thank my late wife, Evelyn. She was the one who taught me the true soul of literature." The cleaver slipped in my hand, nearly taking off my finger. A splash of bloody water from the cutting board hit my apron, blooming like a rotting red flower. Eight years. I am his legally wedded wife. I am the 24/7, live-in caregiver for his paralyzed mother. But in his acceptance speech, I am nothing but thin air. Chapter 1 At seven o'clock that evening, Arthur Sterling returned home with his star students and a few colleagues. The heat in the house was turned up high. They took off their heavy winter coats, revealing elegant suits and sleek cocktail dresses. Arthur’s mother was in good spirits today. She sat in her wheelchair in the center of the living room, graciously accepting the students' greetings. "Your mother looks wonderful, Professor Sterling. You take such meticulous care of her." "Seriously. Your first wife passed away so young, and you’ve had to balance academia with caring for your elderly mother all by yourself. It’s truly inspiring." Everyone was marveling at Arthur’s deep devotion and resilience. I walked out of the kitchen carrying a heavy pot of slow-simmered beef bourguignon that had been on the stove for three hours. The steam billowed up, the rich aroma drifting into everyone's noses. A young female student turned her head and flashed me a sweet smile: "Excuse me, ma'am? Could you grab two more sets of silverware and some extra napkins?" The living room fell dead silent for two seconds. No one corrected her. Arthur was pouring tea for another student and didn't even lift his eyelids. "Go get them. And be quick about it." In that exact moment, I felt like an unevolved primate that had accidentally stumbled into a gathering of civilized humans. I looked down at the faded, oversized sweatpants I was wearing, and the cheap plastic slippers stained with cooking grease. I really did look like the hired help. Worse than the hired help, actually. A housekeeper gets paid by the hour. I only got a fixed monthly "allowance" of five hundred dollars to cover groceries. I turned back to the kitchen. The bitterness rising in my throat tasted like sour dishwater. When I came back out with the silverware, Arthur was standing in the doorway of his study, lighting a memorial candle in front of Evelyn’s portrait. In the photograph, Evelyn wore a black evening gown, sitting gracefully at a Steinway piano like a beautiful swan. I walked over to set the plates down on the adjacent table. When Arthur turned around, he bumped right into me. Crash. A bowl of scalding hot stew tipped over, spilling perfectly onto the edge of the memorial table. I knew how fiercely he guarded this space, so my first instinct was to block the spill with my bare hands. The hot liquid splattered everywhere, but a few drops still managed to hit the bottom edge of Evelyn's picture frame. "What the hell are you doing?!" Arthur reacted like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. He violently shoved me back. I stumbled, my shoulder slamming hard into the doorframe. The back of my hand was searing red, blistered from the boiling stew. But Arthur didn't spare me a single glance. Looking panicked, he pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and began carefully wiping the picture frame, his movements as tender as if he were caressing a lover's face. "You’re so incredibly clumsy. Can you do anything right?" He shot me a vicious glare over his shoulder, his eyes looking like they wanted to swallow me alive. "Today is a huge milestone for me. Did you purposely decide to ruin it?" My scalded hand was burning in agony, but my heart turned entirely to ice. The students exchanged awkward glances. The girl who had called me 'ma'am' whispered, "The Professor loved his first wife so much. He can't even bear to see her photograph get dirty." "Yeah. It’s true, undying love." The room once again erupted into quiet murmurs praising his earth-shattering romance. I stood in the shadows of the corner, clutching my red, swollen hand. I looked at the man I had served hand and foot for eight years, pouring all his devotion into a photograph of a dead woman. I looked at the highly educated elites who treated a living, breathing human being like an invisible piece of furniture. Suddenly, I realized that my life for the past eight years had been nothing but a pathetic joke. I was the Sterling family’s live-in maid. I was his mother’s personal nurse. I was everything except Arthur Sterling’s wife. The string that I had kept pulled taut for eight years finally snapped. I’m done serving them. Chapter 2 I didn't eat dinner. I went straight to my bedroom. I call it a bedroom, but it was actually a storage closet that had been converted into a guest room. Arthur slept in the master bedroom alone—or rather, he slept there with his "memories" of Evelyn. He only came to my room when he had physical needs. When he required me to fulfill my obligations as a wife. I looked at myself in the mirror. My complexion was sallow, the corners of my eyes were lined with wrinkles, and my hair was as dry and brittle as straw. I didn't look thirty-five. If someone said I was fifty, they’d believe it. The girl who used to be the prettiest in her small hometown had withered into a dying weed. I remembered the first time I came to the Sterling house. It was messy, smelled awful, and Arthur was standing there, handsome but utterly helpless. After his mother had a stroke and became paralyzed, her temper turned vicious. She verbally and physically abused the nurses; no one lasted more than three days. Then I arrived. I became the exception. Because I felt sorry for him. Because when I tried to quit, his face was full of desperate pleading. And because, when I finally agreed to stay, the unmistakable joy in his eyes hooked me. Later, my family called, demanding I come back to my hometown to settle down and marry a local guy. I handed in my resignation again. Arthur said, "Marrying a stranger off some app is a gamble with your life. You know this house, and you know me. I'll marry you." Thinking of the deep, devoted way he looked at his late wife, something possessed me to say yes. Because I wanted him to look at me that way, too. I thought if I waited long enough, I would get it. The noise outside slowly died down. The guests had left. Arthur pushed my door open, holding a plastic package in his hand. "Here." He casually tossed the item onto my bed. It was a pair of compression knee sleeves. Thick, wool-lined ones. My heart did a sudden leap. Was it because he saw me scald my hand and felt guilty? Or was it because today was our wedding anniversary? He had never remembered it before, but maybe, subconsciously, he wanted to do something nice for me? For a split second, that pathetic, desperate, feminine delusion bubbled up again. I reached out to touch the knee sleeves, opening my mouth to say something soft. Arthur loosened his tie, his tone deadpan: "Mom's arthritis flares up whenever the weather gets like this. These sleeves are good quality. Put them on her before she goes to sleep." "Also, get up more often during the night. Don't let her wet the bedsheets again, the house is starting to smell." My outstretched hand froze in mid-air. I felt like a clown who had just been publicly slapped across the face. It wasn't for me. It was a tool for his mother. And I was just the tool responsible for applying it. "One more thing," Arthur said, turning toward the door without even looking at me. "That stew spilled earlier. Make sure you mop the hardwood floors again first thing tomorrow morning. Don't leave a lingering smell. And from now on, you are strictly forbidden from touching Evelyn's memorial table." I wanted to laugh, but all I could manage was an expression far uglier than crying. "Arthur." I called out to him. He stopped, looking back with a frown. "What now?" "I want a divorce." Four words. I said them quietly, but with absolute clarity. Arthur paused for a second, then let out a cynical scoff. Looking at me like I was a child throwing an unreasonable tantrum, he pulled a stack of cash from his wallet. It was about two or three hundred dollars. Smack. He slapped it onto the nightstand. "Are you throwing a fit because the students embarrassed you earlier? Fine. Take this, go buy yourself a couple of new dresses. I’m exhausted. Don't start drama over nothing." With that, he walked out without looking back. I followed him out into the hall. He didn't go to the master bedroom. He went to his study. The study door was left slightly ajar. I never went in there alone. Even when I cleaned it, I had to watch his mood carefully. Through the crack in the door, I saw Arthur sitting at that Steinway piano. It was Evelyn’s favorite instrument when she was alive. His long, elegant fingers gently traced the keys. His eyes were so tender they looked like they were melting, as if he were caressing the skin of the woman he loved. In eight years, I had never received a look like that. Not even for a single second. He spoke to the empty air, murmuring softly: "Evelyn... I won the award today. If you were here, it would be perfect..." I pushed the door open and walked in. Arthur snapped his head around. The tenderness instantly shattered into jagged ice. "Who told you you could come in here? Get out!" I looked at the gleaming black piano, and then at the man who was supposed to be my husband. "I'm serious. I want a divorce." This time, Arthur couldn't even be bothered to turn his head. He pressed down on a single piano key. A crisp ding echoed through the room. "Clara, I transferred your monthly allowance to you yesterday. If you need a raise, just say so. Don't use these cheap manipulation tactics. It's beneath you." In his eyes, every emotion I ever felt could ultimately be converted into a dollar amount. I looked at his handsome, refined face. A wave of intense nausea rolled over me. It was more repulsive than looking at his mother's soiled bedsheets. "I'm deadly serious. The divorce is happening tomorrow." I turned, walked out, and closed the door, locking the man drowning in the memories of his dead wife inside his own personal graveyard. Chapter 3 At 2:00 AM. A dull thud echoed from his mother's bedroom. I shot out of bed purely on muscle memory and sprinted into the room next door. I yelled for Arthur. His bedroom was completely empty. He had probably driven out to the cemetery in the middle of the night to visit his beloved ex-wife again. His mother was having a seizure. Her entire body convulsed like a fish out of water, white foam bubbling at the corners of her mouth, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. Turn her on her side. Clear her airway. Prevent her from biting her tongue. Apply pressure to her philtrum. I had performed this exact routine for eight years. It was carved into my bones. Once she stabilized slightly, I hoisted the 130-pound elderly woman onto my back. I weigh 95 pounds. But I gritted my teeth and carried her down three flights of stairs, even as my calves shook violently with the effort. I hailed a cab and rushed straight to the ER. I tried calling Arthur from the backseat. No answer. I had to settle for sending him a text. At the ER, I handled the registration, tracked down the attending doctor, and wheeled her in for a CT scan. I was still in my pajamas. My feet were crammed into my plastic slippers. My hair was a tangled mess, and my shirt was stained with the vomit his mother had coughed up earlier. This was my everyday reality. "Where is the family? Someone needs to pay the cashier," the doctor said, eyeing my disheveled appearance with hesitation. "Are you... the hired nurse? Can you contact her immediate family?" "I am..." "I'm her son!" Rushed footsteps echoed behind me. Arthur had finally arrived. He was wearing a perfectly tailored wool overcoat, his hair styled immaculately. I could even smell his cologne. It was a scent called "Chance." Reportedly, it was Evelyn's absolute favorite. Noble, elegant Arthur, and pathetic, filthy me. We looked like two entirely different species. The doctor immediately switched to a bright, respectful smile: "Ah, Professor Sterling! You’re such a devoted son, rushing over in the middle of the night." Arthur offered a humble, modest smile. He played the part of the refined intellectual flawlessly. As soon as the doctor walked away, Arthur turned his head and finally noticed me. His smile vanished instantly, replaced by his habitual look of reprimand. "What happened? Why did she have a seizure? Did you feed her something wrong at dinner? How are you watching her?!" His voice wasn't loud, but it carried perfectly through the quiet ER hallway. This was his logic. If she got sick, it was my fault. If she got better, it was because of his filial devotion. I didn't say a word. I just silently lifted his mother from the gurney onto the hospital bed, adjusted her pillows, and tucked her in. Arthur just stood there, watching. Since the day I moved in, he hadn't lifted a single finger to do a chore. He had never even poured his own mother a glass of water. Because, as he said, that was my job. A middle-aged woman in the neighboring bed couldn't help but chime in: "Oh my, this lady is so capable. Her hands are so quick! You must be the family's hired maid, right? You're so professional. I wish I could hire someone like you." My hands, which had been wiping his mother's mouth, froze. Arthur stiffened slightly. I just looked at him. All he had to do was say, "This is my wife," or even just mumble a vague agreement to brush it off. But instead, after three seconds of agonizing silence. Arthur nodded and said flatly: "Yes. She is very professional." Boom. The very last thread of sanity holding my mind together completely snapped. Those three seconds of silence were ten thousand times more venomous than him actively screaming at me. It murdered the absolute last shred of delusional hope I had left for him. It murdered every single sacrifice I had made over the last eight years. I took the wet towel in my hand and threw it directly at his chest. "I officially resign. You can serve her yourself!" I turned around and walked out. Arthur hissed furiously behind me: "Clara! Are you insane?! We are in a hospital!" I didn't look back. My pace only got faster. When I walked out the hospital doors, the freezing night wind hit my face, and I realized my cheeks were soaked with tears. But inside, my heart felt an unprecedented, absolute thrill of liberation. Chapter 4 I went back to that so-called "home" and started packing my things. There wasn't much to pack. Aside from a few changes of cheap clothes, there was almost nothing in this house that truly belonged to me. In his study, hidden at the very bottom of a locked drawer, I found our original "marriage agreement." It wasn't a prenuptial agreement; it was a literal employment contract. It was written in black and white: Party B (me) is responsible for all daily care and living requirements of Party A (Arthur's mother). Party A (Arthur) will pay Party B a monthly living stipend. During the duration of the marriage, Party B shall not interfere with Party A's private personal space... I ripped it into a hundred pieces. Next to it was a small leather ledger. It was a meticulous accounting of his expenses over the last eight years. He was a man of habit; he recorded every single transaction. I had never paid attention to it before, but opening it now was like taking a knife to my own chest. April 2018. Landscaping for Evelyn's grave. Memo: Dedicated fund for my beloved wife. $500. June 2018. Clara's dental appointment. Memo: Labor maintenance expenses. $80. ... So that was it. In his eyes, I was no different than a washing machine that occasionally needed a repairman. Staring at those entries, one by one. My blood ran completely cold. My stomach churned violently, and I rushed to the bathroom, dry-heaving over the toilet for ten minutes. I took off the heavy winter coat I was wearing, threw it on the floor, and stomped on it twice. Because embroidered on the inner lining of the coat was the letter E. Evelyn. I took everything he had designated in his ledger as "Labor Supplies" and left them behind. Including the paper-thin, two-gram gold wedding band. When we got married, he bought it, claiming he didn't like ostentatious displays of wealth and preferred things simple. It turned out he didn't dislike ostentatious displays; he just disliked spending money on me. When I finished packing, all I had was a single, battered canvas duffel bag. This was the sum total of my eight years. The front door unlocked. Arthur was back. Seeing the chaotic mess in the apartment, he furrowed his brow, his eyes filled with extreme displeasure. "Clara, are you done throwing your tantrum? Mom is still lying in a hospital bed! What are you doing running back here? Pack a bag and get back to the hospital!" I was still wearing my cheap thrift-store clothes, but this time, my spine was ramrod straight. I took the slightly warped gold ring and placed it on the glass coffee table with a sharp clink. And then, I smiled. It was the first time in eight years I had smiled so freely, so recklessly in this house. "Professor Sterling, your unpaid maid, Clara Hayes, is officially off the clock." "Oh, and I threw that coat in the trash. Wearing a dead woman's clothes is bad luck. It was making me sick." Arthur's face changed drastically, as if he had just been slapped brutally across the face. "What did you just say?" "I said, I'll see you at the county courthouse at 8:00 AM tomorrow for the divorce papers. Also, since I am a professional maid, remember to wire my eight years of back wages to my bank account. Don't try to stiff me, or I’ll really look down on you." With that, I ignored him, picked up my duffel bag, and stepped over the dried stain of the spilled stew, walking out the door.
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